Phantoms Don’t Kill - chapter 2
When playing poker, if you have a monster hand the challenge is to play like you don’t. If you have a weak hand and you want to bluff, you have to consistently act like you have a monster. For a phantom, the idea is to not act like a phantom. The best way to do this is to act like someone typical when you are under the watchful eye of the grid. So I ask myself, what would the algorithm expect a typical person to do? After breakfast, I stroll down to the book store, order an espresso, and explore the new releases for a bit. The last thing the algorithm is looking for is someone who lingers on the grid. Then I buy a few groceries and take a leisurely stroll home.
The nature of the grid changes when I get home. Only the television has video capability, as if no one would guess that. Initially, phantoms tossed out their TV sets. Soon, however, it became clear that this was a clear indication that someone was trying to avoid the grid and they wound up elevated in the algorithm. So common practice now is to keep a TV near the kitchen where is records video of you every day making meals.
Mostly the grid keeps tabs on you through audio when you are home. Every phone is easily adapted to listen in not only to phone conversations, but any conversation in the room between calls. I find it baffling that so many still can’t believe the man listens in on our conversations. Of course I find it even more baffling that many of the same people are paranoid of the grid. Oh well, it is what lets phantoms like me make a living.
After putting away my groceries, I ponder my next move. The two modes of transportation that let one drop off the grid are bicycle and kayak. In Florida these can be used year round, making the southern state a haven for phantoms. I figure bicycle would be best to check out the marina. I slip into a pair of khaki shorts and make a phone call to a buddy. The phone call is about nothing in particular, but rumor has it that not using your phone for too long elevates you in the algorithm. No sense taking any chances.
The down side of Florida is that it is hot and humid. The temperature is near ninety degrees as I pedal off for the marina three miles away. It is early afternoon and the sun is shining brightly. I take it easy, pedalling down sidewalks and side streets at a leisurely pace. I find it hard to keep my sunglasses in place, but the sunglasses and helmet are not only practical but help me to blend in with a thousand other folks on bicycles making any kind of video recognition difficult.
Luckily I have a couple of friends with boats at Bahia Mar. I tell the guard I’m there to visit Scott aboard “Sea Biscuit” in 412. Scott rarely goes anywhere, he likes the boating community and the close neighbors. If you are at your dock, there is nearly always someone willing to drop by and have a drink with you. So when the guard checks, Scott is in, and I’m waived through. Today the records list me as “Art Givens”.
Scott invites me up on deck. There are few cameras around to capture anything on the decks of the boats. One of the privileges of wealth. He disappears below briefly and returns with drinks. Scott drinks beer, but he appreciates my weakness for 16 year old smokey single malt scotch and keeps some around for me. Always the ladies man, Scott is sharply dressed in white yachting trousers and a neatly pressed shirt. Not exactly an athlete, but tall and trim. I always feel a bit unkempt around him.
Scott and I go way back. We first met in college, and have been friends ever since. He went on to earn an MBA and make enough money in banking to retire early. I earned my degree in marketing, but the more I learned about the methods of the man, the more I hated it. Every phantom needs a confidant like Scott. Someone on the inside that can be trusted implicitly. We each respect the path the other took. I respect that Scott played the game and won. He respects the fact I didn’t want to play the game.
“So, is this business or pleasure?” Scott asks.
“Both” I answer.
“Ah, business” Scott replies, and we both chuckle.
“Do you know anything about the Drifter over in 232 Scott?”
“The Drifter? Yeah. Smokin’ babe owns it. Dark black hair. Blue eyes. Stunning. Won’t give me the time of day.”
“So, she has taste?” I jab with a smile.
“Touche” Scott offers back, with his glass of beer tilted toward me. We touch glasses and drink to that.
“Do you know how long Drifter has been gone?” I ask Scott.
“I’d say at least a week, maybe more. I usually notice her jogging past my boat in the morning before the sun rises too high. But she hasn’t been by in a few days.”
“What kind of boat is Drifter? What kind of range would she have?”
“Drifter is a 44 foot go fast. It has more room below than most go fast boats, but it really doesn’t have much room for a liveaboard. But with the big twin diesels she can carry some mail. I’m not sure about the range, but the diesels get pretty good mileage compared to gas. Generally, they put some pretty large tanks in them, because at 70 knots you are going to be burning through some fuel. So just cruising, a boat like that can have a pretty long range.”
“Is the boat often gone on long trips?” I ask.
“No. Usually day trips. Or night runs. It is pretty unusual not to see her jog by in the morning. I take it your job has something to do with Drifter or the babe that owns her?”
“Yeah.” There are very very few people that I clue in on my jobs. Scott, however, is one of those few trusted people. “I’m supposed to find her.” I took another sip of scotch.
Scott just nodded. Processing what we talked about. Asking questions in his mind, such as “Why not go to the Police?” but answering them without speaking. Finally he said “We’ll need to get some GPS data.”
It is a great irony that the grid phantoms avoid can be exploited by phantoms. The trick, of course, is to access the data without being detected. “If we can get the GPS ID for the boat or her cell phone, we can access it online through anonymous firewalls.” I suggest.
“Hey, there is a phone book for the marina, lets see if her number is in it.” Scott goes down below and soon returns triumphantly.
I pull a thumbdrive from my pocket. On the thumbdrive are some programs that let me explore the internet without being traced. They randomly scramble the internet trail every few seconds. Even the man hasn’t figured out how to break solid encryption technology. I pop it into Scott’s laptop and locate a hacker site that provides the GPS ID for a given phone number. Then I enter the GPS ID into a locator site and …… crap. Kate’s cell phone must be in her dock box. The location is Bahia Mar slip 232.
“Scott, do you know the make of boat?”
“I can’t remember. It was a custom make, somewhere in Florida. A corny name.”
I search for boat builders, custom, Florida. Scott is looking over my shoulder and he sees “Ocean Motion”. “That’s it. Ocean Motion. Gotta be one the dumbest names ever for a boat.” Scott exclaims.
As luck would have it, the boat was named Drifter from the factory, and I was able to get a hull number and cross reference that with a GPS ID for the boat. I looked at my watch, I had only a minute left. My limit is five minutes covertly surfing the web. Though I trust the encryption technology, it isn’t worth taking any chances with prolonged covert surfing.
I put in the GPS ID of the boat into the locator and wait………success. The boat is just off Pine Key, in a cluster of small keys and channels. I pull the battery from the computer to shut it down without any chance of leaving tracers. It looks like its time for a road trip.
- the MuseTags: phantom
